“Smile,” Matteo whispers, and I do, baring my teeth like a promise as we lift our paper tickets. The gate chirps, and the doors part. We slide through on a breath.
They’re right behind us now.
I don’t need to look back.
We drop down the iron stairs toward the lower-level platforms, boots drumming alongside the hundred others fleeing the morning, and duck into a bookshop. Matteo takes the back aisle, I take the front, and we meet at the postcard rack. The big one barges in the entrance at a run and trips over a suitcase full-on. A woman yelps and paperbacks avalanche off a rack. Belfast Nose darts in next and blunders into a strategically placed tower of shortbread tins. A tartan explosion buys us four more seconds.
We take them. We race through the café, past the steam, and into a service corridor that smells like old sweatshirts and bleach. Darting out the fire door into a side lane, we find the city and an icy chill.
Matteo tugs on my hand, weaving us through the morning hustle at a clipped pace. Not fast enough to attract attention but not dawdling. Only when we’re under a dripping stone arch does he finally stop. He’s not winded. He looks annoyed.
“They shouldn’t have been that ready for us.” His eyes go razor-sharp. “Maybe they tracked the jet to London. But Euston? And again here? No. It doesn’t make sense.”
“How then?” My voice is too harsh, already knowing I won’t like the answer.
He draws me closer, fingers careful. “Hold still.”
“What are you?—”
Matteo’s hands slide up and down my clothes. It takes all my restraint not to squirm as my body remembers the feel of him. Then he lifts my hood and pinches the hem. His thumbs work the seam, and a string of curses streak out. When he brings his hand down, there’s a flat, coin-thin disk on his palm. There’s no logo, just matte black, the size of a button. Its center glows a bored red.
I instantly go cold. “What is that?” But I already know the answer.
“An active tracker. It’s a short-range beacon tied to someone’s long-range net.” His jaw tightens. “That bastard must have tagged you at the hangar.”
“No…”
Images hit like a hailstorm. Donal’s thumb checking my jaw, his coat brushing my shoulder, his breath hot with fury and worry. Heat surges up, and my eyes sting before I can stop them.
“My own brother sold me out,” I hiss, and it tastes like rust. “To Tiernan.”
“Or he panicked and reached for the only leash he knew.” Matteo’s voice is soft but not excusing. “Either way, it’s off you now.”
I want to throw the little devil as hard as I can into the River Clyde. I want to call my brother and burn what’s left. But worst of all, I want to cry and that makes me angrier than anything.
Matteo must see all of it. He closes his fist around the tag, then steps to the mouth of the lane, scanning traffic. A deliveryvan rattles past, headed south. He flicks the disk, and it lands like a fly under the lip of the bumper, magnet kissing metal.
“Let Tiernan chase sandwiches to Dumfries,” he mutters, then turns back to me.
My breath hiccups. The betrayal sits under my ribs like shrapnel. “He put it on me like I was… I was property.”
“You’re not,” Matteo growls, low and lethal. His hands hover by my arms, not touching until I nod. When I do, he does, just once, warm and anchoring. “Look at me.”
I do. His eyes are green and furious on my behalf. “You don’t belong on the end of anyone’s leash,” he snarls. “Not him. Not me. Not ever.”
It shouldn’t help, but it does, a little. I swallow, swipe at my cheeks, furious they’re wet again. “I hate that I didn’t feel it. How could I have been so stupid?”
“He’s been doing this a long time,” Matteo whispers, softening. “So have I.” He tips my chin. “Now we know how he’s been an inch ahead all along. But he won’t be again.”
I nod because moving is easier than breaking. “So we go to Ayr?”
“Aye. Ayr.” He smirks, eyes sparkling with mirth, and my own lips tip up. “The car is waiting for us two streets over.”
My head dips because I don’t trust myself to speak. To thank him for all he’s done for me.
We cut through back lanes to a waiting SUV that smells like new upholstery. Matteo mutters something before checking the mirrors, then the footwell, and the dash. Then he slides his hand beneath the tire and reveals the FOB. Good old Gemini paranoia wrapped in courtesy, and we finally slide in. As we pull away, Glasgow thins to gray and gulls, the motorway gathering us up in its chaotic embrace.
It unwinds like a ribbon ahead, and for a blessed stretch no one is trying to kill us. We pass a sign for Ayr, and the rain easesto mist. Matteo drives one-handed, the other palm-up on the console like a standing invitation he isn’t pushing. I finally ease my hand into his, and the tightness in my chest wanes.
